Broken Compass
by Niente Zero
Summary: Internal monologues in response to "Good for the Soul." Ray K learns that sometimes getting what you think you want is the worst possible thing that could happen. Fraser tries to live with giving up on an ideal. Bob Fraser watches over his son. Angsty!
1. Chapter 1

** Disclaimer - Don't own it.  
**

**Part 1 - Being an internal monologue of Ray Kowalski during _Good for the Soul_, after Fraser gets himself beaten up playing chicken with one of the biggest mob bosses in Chicago.  
**

Those eyes, usually full of trust, heart, openness, and now he's looking down at his boots, at the floor of the car, as if he can hardly stand to be near you. What the hell has he got to be ashamed of?

Fraser hasn't said much. Thanked you, automatically, when you helped ease him into the car. Gave you a _look_ when you asked what happened. You'd have been amused any other time, if it was directed at someone else, the way it said, for a split second, 'are you a total imbecile?', but it's not like him to show that much contempt, and neither's his brief, mumbled account of the whole incident, entirely lacking in his usual sharp grasp of detail. He won't even lift his head, eyes down like a kicked dog.

Of course you're protective. Fraser's your partner. More than that, he's your friend, brother. He doesn't seem to think you're crazy, he accepts you for who you are. You look out for each other. And on top of that, you're protective because his chivalry has a way of getting him walked all over, and if you don't stand up for him, who will? Sure, he can be demanding. He can be arrogant. He thinks he's right all the time - but you think you're right all the time, so while there's some butting heads there, you can't blame the man for that. His tendency to drag your skinny ass into danger the second a civilian breaks a fingernail -well, you could live without it, but then, he wouldn't be Fraser any more.

You tell Fraser you're taking him to the nearest ER. You're scared by how unresponsive he's acting. At this, you see a spark of fire, his jaw tightening as he refuses. "That won't be necessary, Ray." and that's that. You've done enough arguing and cajoling him for one day. You'll respect his wishes. You head to the station, for want of anywhere else sensible to take him. You're damn sure you can't handle this one on your own.

So how did you protect him this time? You look across at Fraser while you're stuck at a stoplight, see a couple of ugly shades of purple on white, his lower lip swelling up like a balloon. You will him to look up and see how sorry you are, how much you hate that you failed him, but when he meets your eyes, all you see is a kind of incredulous pleading, as if he's unwilling to believe you could be asking him, now, the state he's in, to do one more thing for you. All you see is that for once he hasn't got anything left, can't even swallow your apology and muster some kind of gracious look of reassurance.

Fraser never listens when you tell him to back off a case. You never meant it to turn out this way. But as soon as you heard Warfield's name, as soon as you figured out just who Fraser was trying to put under citizen's arrest (and by the way, can a foreign national even _do_ that?) you knew that this was a fight he couldn't win. You don't think you're a coward, but a man has to know his limits, right? Not Fraser. He'd dug his heels in, determined to prove a point.

How many times did you tell Fraser he couldn't take Warfield down? One of Chicago's biggest mob bosses. A ruthless bastard with an army of lawyers, not to mention an actual army, at his disposal. But Fraser couldn't accept that. Nothing comes before justice in his world. You have your own self-destructive tendencies, but it's not like you put yours on a pedestal and call them 'duty'. He doesn't even realize the number of close calls he's dragged you and him through for some abstract concept. Like a freaking pit bull, he just can't let go.

Fraser can't stand seeing the little guy get trod on with no recourse, no one to stick up for 'em. Can't stand it. You knew that's why he wouldn't budge. You, you can't stand to watch Fraser beat his head against the brick wall of money and influence. You've known your whole life that's how things work in this town. Of course you hate it. You wish you still believed, as he seems to, that one man standing up for his ideals is enough to change the world, but you think of what your father said, wish in one hand, spit in the other, see which fills up first. And since you can't change the way the world works, not even for Fraser, you wish he could accept that some things are just too big for him to take on.

Did you think, if you drove away and left Fraser alone outside Warfield's club, he'd change his mind about sticking around there? Or was it the frustration? That's what burns you up now. Were you still trying to shield him from the consequences of going after Warfield, or were you just pissed at his refusal to see things your way? Why did you let it slide so easily, let him send you, and dammit, even the wolf, away? Sure, you had no grounds to arrest him, that was a bluff, expressing your worry for him by threatening to drag him downtown, but couldn't you have tried harder? Would it have killed you to stare down his stubbornness a little longer?

The call came in, the bouncer on the door. Said it was a mugging. Didn't even bother trying to sound sincere when he lied. You should have known this was going to happen. Warfield's hired goons had tried it on once, and you'd been there, been there to bail his ass out of hot water, so why would you think they wouldn't try it on again when they were sure he was alone? Fraser should have known too. But he'd never believe the worst. He'd trust that he would be strong enough to see justice done, never mind the price. That's going to get him killed one day, and god damn it, you hope you don't have to see it when it happens. If you were a cat you'd have gone through eight lives already trying to delay that day.

When you got there, breaking even more traffic laws than usual, pride was the only thing keeping Fraser on his feet. You could see, the way he wouldn't meet your eyes, there wasn't much of that left. You tried feeling angry at him for not listening to you, for letting this happen, but it was half-hearted and you know, you _know_ that it was a dodge to cover up how much you hate yourself right now.

You've read all the files - more than once. Ostensibly it was to make sure you could slide right into your cover, but you're not fooling yourself, you can't help comparing yourself to the 'real' Ray, reminding yourself that all these people are basically pretending to be your friends. So you know this isn't the first time someone tried to stop Fraser with an old fashioned beat down. But the real Ray, you figure he wouldn't have let it happen this way. You can't help glancing over again, looking at Fraser with that burning question that he'd never answer, he's too loyal, but you wonder, does he think that too?

You wanted to protect Fraser? Great job, Kowalski. You wanted to protect him by making him see he couldn't win, so he'd give up and get the hell away from the danger he was putting himself in. You wanted him to understand that the system would always beat him when it came to a guy like Warfield. You bet he understands that now. That look of defeat- it's not like Fraser to let a little physical danger slow him down, you know it's more than that.

Not one of you stood by him, not Welsh, not Stella, god knows not his own commanding officer, Thatcher, and worst of all, not you. You know in your heart that if you'd supported him, this attack would just have been a bump in the road, not whatever it is to him - the last straw. You're going to snap the steering wheel in half the way you're gripping it, because there is nothing you can do, nothing at all, to change the fact that you let your partner down.

When you pull up outside the station, you watch Fraser visibly attempt to compose himself, trying to put on a good face for all the people in there who are going to want him to tell them that everything's okay. Apparently you're the only one he'll let see him like this. That probably means something important, but you don't know what, except you could live a hundred more years and you wouldn't forget the total collapse you'd just witnessed.

He's shaking, just barely perceptibly, but- still. The let down from the adrenaline rush, that's all, right? He doesn't want to let you assist him, but he's too unsteady on his feet just yet to refuse your support as you help him in to the station to the inevitable sideshow of concerned cops.

Fraser doesn't do as well as usual at convincing everyone he's just fine. In fact, only Frannie seems distracted enough to ignore what's in front of her in favor of lecherous comments. Welsh is practically paternal in his concern. It's a knife twist when Fraser walks out, refusing your offer of a ride. Who'd have thought that hearing him say you were right would cut you so deep?

Fraser's been the moral compass of the precinct for how long? And you all take it for granted that he'll always be there, reliably pointing true North, showing the way to the high ground. You know you need that. You're a better person with someone to hold you back from kicking heads. You like to think that you're good for him, too, your instinct and passion matching well with his logic and determination. But not tonight. Tonight you think he would have been better off if he never met you.

It's unthinkable to watch him knuckle under and walk away from doing what he knows is right. It's impossible to deny that you played a part in this disaster. And that tears at you, right in the gut.

Turns out, after all that time you spent trying to get him to see how things really work in Chicago, none of you have the stomach to watch him deal with the resultant trashing of his ideals. In fact, it turns out that quite a number of you are prepared to put up with whatever shit the State's Attorney might hand out, are prepared to go toe to toe with a stone cold killer, rather than see that particular pair of broad shoulders slumped over in despair and resignation.

Welsh doesn't have to ask twice if you want to go take Warfield down. Maybe that will make it all better, maybe it'll restore Fraser's damaged faith in justice, in people. You have to hope so. Because if it doesn't, well, Kowalski, it's just one more screw up for the books. But this one, you're not sure you can bear.

**Author's Note: Phew. I know the episode works its way to a happy ending, but I couldn't let Ray off the hook. I'm a big meanie. This was going to be a one-shot because Ray's part came to me a while ago, but when I was wrapping things up, it became clear that I need to tell Ben's side of the story too, so that's coming in a few days. I could really use some critical feedback for this before I go on with the second part, so please review if you feel so inclined. I know the point of view is _odd_, so I'd love to hear reactions. Neither first nor third person seemed to work to tell the story quite how I wanted. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer - Don't own it.**

**Part 2 - In which Benton Fraser contemplates losing more than he can afford.**

In many ways you are difficult for most people to understand, but in one aspect you are transparent enough for Warfield to comprehend you utterly. There is no hesitation when you run into the alleyway behind his club to help the screaming girl, even though the odds point to a setup. There's no way you'll gamble on an innocent woman's safety. That guarantees the success of Warfield's trap. He has used the integrity he saw in you to bring you to your knees.

That there are five of them is a grim metaphor for the odds you face going after Warfield. And yet, you dare hope- two of them block the alley behind you, three in front, but there's a parked car as well, and you nearly make it up over the car, past the three. A bruising blow from a length of pipe brings you crashing down, and that's the end of any chance you had. It is during the gleeful pummeling that you see that the whole thing is over. You've lost. Ray was right, you can't fight Warfield. Not alone. When they leave you gasping on the ground it takes a few moments before you can even be bothered _trying_ to stand up.

The bouncer isn't unkind when he asks the name of the cop you'd been with. It's just business to him. He is brief and dry on his phone, telling Ray to come get you, that you aren't in a fit state to make your own way home.

You can tell that Ray wants you to say something to show that you're bearing up, but now is not the time for you to have to look into those glittering, expressive eyes and find another piece of yourself to give away. Can't he see that you've reached your limit? You feel physically compromised, frail, which is normal given that you were just assaulted violently, but you wouldn't usually _let_ it affect you this way.

It's not being punished for trying to do a good deed that hurts so much. That rolls off your back, an old familiar sensation. Knowing that you aren't strong enough to keep fighting, that you'll back down this time and let an evil man prosper, well. That's a whole new world of pain. "All it takes for evil to flourish, is for good men to do nothing." You strive to be a good person, but you have to face that you're not able to meet every one of your high standards.

All you want is to be alone. That's why you refused to go to the hospital, but to your distress, Ray's headed to the one place you'd rather avoid. Now that you've been taught your lesson, the people who count themselves your friends won't let you hide and lick your wounds in private. They'll suck the rest of your strength out of you, as if asking if it hurts and hovering anxiously until you muster a convincing negative is what it takes to fix everything. But where else can Ray take you? You momentarily contemplate opening the car door at the next light and stumbling out, but that would make Ray worry more, and he'd come after you.

At least Ray understands you well enough, and has the generosity of spirit to be quiet and not vocalize his need for comfort from you. You really don't want him to feel guilty or upset, but you can't help yourself right now, let alone anyone else.

Because of your extraordinary faith in humanity, the easy trust you put in strangers to do the right thing, people often take you for a fool. But you're not stupid, not by any measure. You see all the angles, see that if you walk this solitary road you will end up dead. Warfield made that clear, for all your bravado in the face of his threats. The assault was just to underline it, get your attention focussed. You're not afraid, but Warfield made sure you know that he will back up his words with action if you don't stop.

For all that you want to see justice done, it would be both reckless and pointless to martyr yourself. Besides, Warfield's depressing arrest record and Stella Kowalski's attitude to pressing charges against him tell you it'd be entirely in vain, just another minor legal problem that Warfield would slide out of.

Warfield saw all that when he gloated in your face. He's strong-armed enough people to recognize your shamed capitulation. You don't disagree with his analysis; in this situation you are nothing but a loser.

If you were a different kind of man, you'd take some vigilante justice to Warfield, but for you, running out of legal options to deal with him is the end of the line. There will be no visit to him in the middle of the night with a loaded weapon, no waiting in a dark alley for revenge. You can see how people succumb to that sort of temptation, but that would be even worse than the current disastrous state of your moral backbone.

The branch that cannot bend must break. That's what your dad said. The aching in your head isn't just from having it pushed through a car window. You are agonizingly unclear on one point: did you bend, or did Warfield break you?

You can feel Ray looking at you. His driving is more erratic than usual. You hate for anyone to see you like this, but if it has to happen, better your partner and friend than anyone else. But you still don't lift your head. You feel like you have a thousand pound weight pressing you down. Ray has seen too much already. If you try to talk, even to offer him simple words of comfort, you don't trust yourself not to make a scene, and that would be unbearable on top of the state of disgrace in which you find yourself. Your instinct when you're hurting is to shut down, and you're doing _that_ very effectively.

There is only so much time before you'll be at the station, and by then it is imperative that you have mustered your remaining small amount of dignity. You need to walk in there and make them all believe that you are only damaged physically. Whatever Ray's feeling that keeps his eyes burning into you, it's not pity. But if you let the others see this raw pain, you might as well be naked in front of them.

You don't blame any of them for what happened. Oh, it stings that no-one cared to support you, after everything you've- but that kind of thinking is not helpful, you must not fall into the trap of resentment. Only, why? Why does the hardest course always fall to you alone? You take a deep breath, ignoring flaring messages of discomfort from your midsection, and direct your thoughts away from your own suffering.

It doesn't take a mind-reader to figure out that Ray's sitting in the driver's seat beating himself up mentally, and if you had the energy to spare you'd tell him to stop, just stop. Ray said that in a perfect world, there'd be justice for the likes of Warfield. You believe fervently that it takes conviction and courage to get the world the little bit closer to perfect it needs to be. But the constant trickle of seediness, desolation, corruption and human misery that assails you, working law enforcement in Chicago, has corroded your faith just enough that you understand why these people, strong, admirable people like Ray, Lieutenant Welsh, shrug and go with the system. Maybe it's time for you to go home.

A stolen glance over at Ray doesn't help. This is what you're doing to your friend? If Ray can beat himself up for failing to protect you from stubbornness, you're more than capable of piling the salt into your own wounds. You'd asked more than Ray was comfortable giving, and you were frustrated by his refusal to help. But you you can't pretend you didn't understand his reasons, even if you didn't agree with him, and now you can't spare anything from your self-absorbed bubble of melancholy to reach out to him and make him see that he's not the one responsible for this mess.

Ray told you that you were being selfish, and perhaps he was right. You didn't stop to consider how your stand-off with Warfield would affect him. You'll have to find the words soon to tell him that this isn't his fault. The blame belongs first and foremost with Warfield, but then it's on your own head, no one else's. The whole thing was about making Warfield take responsibility for his own actions; it's ironic that other, good, compassionate people will now take upon themselves the guilt that belongs firmly with the gangster.

Ray parks outside the precinct building. You're not ready for the inevitable chorus of "what happened?" You already lost control of your features when Ray asked the stupid question, although you give him credit for not opening with "Are you okay?" when the answer is self evidently "No." You are nothing remotely like okay.

You will have to do better with the crowd of police officers and civilians who will gather around to gawp at your bloodied face for want of anything better to do. You catch yourself in this bitter thought. It's unbecoming. Of course it's human nature to stop and pay attention to something out of the ordinary. And no matter how lonely you felt standing up to Warfield, many of the people inside that building are your friends. It's not fair to impugn their motives just because you loathe the idea of being the center of a whirlwind of aghast attention.

You brace yourself, let Ray help you out of the car, try not to lean too heavily on him, try not to let him guess how wretched you feel. Given that he's half-carrying you, this is probably a vain effort. Francesca's the first to catch sight of you, and her shocked reaction is exactly what you feared. It's show time. Time to act normal. Reserved, polite, not revealing the tempest of emotions inside you. You let her help you out of your coat and jacket, let Ray answer the bombardment of questions for you. No matter what damage has been done between the two of you today, he's still good at being your partner and stepping in when you just can't do it any more.

Ray wants to see Warfield arrested for what he had done to you. He's back on form, giving lip to his ex-wife Stella, the State's Attorney, posturing and declaiming. It's touching, and it's a comfort compared to the guilt-laden silence of the drive over, but you are relieved when Stella Kowalski makes it completely clear that there's no point even trying. You've given up, and you just don't have the heart to let Ray battle on, to watch him try to make up for what he sees as letting you down. You could give them more information about the people who attacked you. Since when would wearing masks be enough to stop you from seeing things that could identify them? But you're glad that no-one pushes you, because what's the point of arresting Warfield's hired help? What's the point of any of it any more? There'd just be more lies, more of Warfield's lawyers, more "We're so sorry, but our hands are tied."

The voice coming out of your mouth when you tell Ray that he was right, that you can't beat the system, sounds hopeless even to you. If you want them to believe that nothing's wrong, you're doing a terrible job. You were coping when Francesca was doing most of the talking. Her chatter was easy to brush off with pat answers. And when Ray and Stella were sparring, you kept your head down and let them argue as if you weren't there. But then the Lieutenant had to speak, had to drop his usual gruffness long enough to get under your skin. No. You won't stand for hearing pity in his voice.

The probability that you can stay in the Lieutenant's office and continue breathing and not lose your self control and show them something intensely private drops to zero. They have already witnessed your shame, your failure. You cannot let them see the underlying anger that you hate even feeling, the resentment you tried so hard to push down. You have to get out. Alone. You manage a semblance of normality when you assure them you'll be fine walking home. You're putting back the pieces of your facade, even if what's inside feels shattered.

**Author's Note: Again, I didn't feel like getting to the happy ending. I blame Winter. I might write a perspective on the happy ending (I'm not sure whose) if people wanted to see it. I'm glad the second person seemed to work - and thanks for the constructive feedback I got!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: One last point of view. This was _Darkover_'s suggestion for the last perspective. Unlike the other chapters, it's in first person because Bob Fraser is ... a stubborn old bugger who refused to be written about in second person. He can speak for himself, thank you very much. My thanks to everyone who reviewed the first two parts - discussing motivations and so on definitely contributed heavily to this part. And because I am the avatar of angst, the ending's not that happy after all.**

**Part 3**

The boy feels safe getting angry at me - I'm not a fool, I've noticed - because I already abandoned him. Once, when he was six and his mother died, and I left him with his grandmother, and once and for all when that bastard Gerard had me killed. Showing a bit of a temper that he hides around other people is a strange way of grieving, but I can't blame him. I think he's afraid that if he lets other people see any weakness, he'll lose them too. He keeps that lid tamped down so tightly, he lets them all believe that he's untouchable. Apart from his old partner, I don't think any of these yanks have seen him angry before. I'm not sure that they realize they have now.

I tried to give Ben sound advice. You don't spend as many years as I did hunting down desperate men without learning a thing or two about what makes them tick. But I'm on no surer footing when it comes to dealing with a man like Warfield, a situation like this, than he is. Back home, the problem would be keeping the boy who Warfield slapped from taking revenge with a knife or a shotgun. Men out there know how to settle their differences foursquare, the way it should be.

All I could do was try to stop Ben from feeling too disappointed in the people around him, every man jack of them too scared to stand by him. Scared of lawyers, scared of their superiors, too scared to see that if they stood together they'd be stronger than Warfield. I couldn't have stopped him from standing up to Warfield, he wouldn't have listened. But even if I could have, I wouldn't have tried. Ben's my son. But his duty as a Mountie comes before any paternal worries I might have. And he knew his duty was to uphold the law.

So there is my son, brokenhearted and angry, walking out of that police station trying to reconcile quitting the case with his deeply held principles. I think that feeling anger toward his partner and the other officers scares him just as much as the feeling of defeat. Because it's obvious to me, the set of his jaw, the line of his shoulders, that he's battling within himself. I should know. I've seen that look in the mirror.

Frankly, I reserve most of my anger for the Lieutenant. Ben's immensely loyal to his partner, and I have to admit, grudgingly, that the man's not bad, mostly reliable. But he's finding his feet. He needs Ben, and Ben needs his friendship, but I can see that sometimes it's hard for him to follow Ben all the way into the fire. But the Lieutenant- how many times does the boy have to prove himself before the Lieutenant will trust his judgment? The shame of it is, I think I could have worked with the Lieutenant, if I hadn't been dead. But he really messed this one up, if you ask me.

Ben calls out to me. That doesn't happen often. Even less often do I hear him ask for reassurance from me in that way. He asks if he's being selfish, but what he wants to know is, is it _his fault_ the others abandoned him like that? Left him to face the darkness on his own? 

He might as well be six again, the way the hurt in his voice rends me. I don't know how to talk to the boy, comfort him. Not like this. I tell him the truth, that he's arrogant and single-minded, and that hurts him more. He takes it badly, but even then his outburst is clipped and curt, desperately controlled. Then I tell him what he needs to hear most of all - that he was right to take a stand. I wish I'd known it would be that easy to lift some of the burden off his shoulders. Immediately he looks less bowed over, less devastated.

This is where I'd usually tell him to buck up, pull himself together, go get his man. But what can I say? I'm not about to send him to his death, and I haven't the faintest idea what to tell him about giving up. We Frasers may be a lot of things, but we aren't good losers.

To forgive or not to forgive. When you're dead, it's pretty much a long lesson in the pointlessness of holding grudges. All the same, I'm not as quick to forgive or forget that these men let my boy down, when the yank and the Lieutenant show up in that flash car, ready to do what they should have done all along, ready to make the man Warfield answer for his crime.

I suppose that I should be relieved that Ben forgives so quickly, the bitterness instantly wiped from his face and replaced with, dear god, a childlike eagerness to be happy with them again. He's no good at staying angry. Except at me. I want to shake the boy and tell him to grow a spine, not to let the Americans off the hook so easily. I'd like to congratulate Lieutenant Welsh on finally doing _his_ duty. Being dead can cramp your style sometimes.

Ben rides shotgun, which leaves me crammed in the back seat with the Lieutenant. Not that any of them notice. What happened to respect for the dead?

Back in '67, I had to arrest an entire cabin of hunters out near Gameti for taking barren-ground Caribou without a license. When I found them, they were drunk as lords and you wouldn't believe the noise coming from that tiny cabin, the singing, shouting, fighting. But it was really nothing compared to the din in Warfield's club. No wonder people commit so many crimes in this city, packed in like sardines, nowhere to breathe. I don't know how Ben's stayed so long.

There are a lot of different kinds of joy. One kind is a clean joy in doing your duty. But there's also a savage, smashing joy in taking vengeance. That's what the 27th District police officers seem to be feeling now as they clear the floor of the crowded club, putting a halt to every kind of vice. Warfield shouldn't have gone after one of their own. They won't tolerate that. At least not once the damage has been done. Better late than never, I suppose.

If Ben - if any of them - is afraid when Warfield, rotund and bellicose, brings his armed men down from his office, they don't show it. Not a drop of sweat between them. For all that I asked Ben to get revenge for me on Gerard, that's nothing compared to what I'd like to do to this man who is responsible for hurting my son. I think Ben's yank partner is on the same wavelength as me. The wild look on his face says he'd be pleased if a gun battle were to break out. He's standing close to Ben, protective now. I curse my worthless service revolver and try to be happy that even if Ben is unarmed, the men around him more than make up for it.

Ben doesn't flinch when Warfield stands an inch from him, yelling in his face. I remember when he was a little boy, watching him stand tall under a dressing down from his grandmother after a piece of childhood mischief. To tell the truth, I'm reminded of a few lectures from my own youth. Anyone who could take one of that woman's scoldings without batting an eyelash, well, it's not surprising that Warfield doesn't scare him. I'd like to say that I taught the boy everything he knows about police work, but the fact is, there were too many years when we hardly spoke from month to month. This is all him. Facing down the man who tried to break him, refusing to budge until he gets that confession.

----

Anyone who's climbed mountains can tell you that the smallest pebble falling can be enough to trigger a deadly avalanche. So it is for Warfield. One confession of a misdemeanor leading to an arrest, to charges that will stick, is apparently enough to spur betrayals and counter-betrayals. Ben pursuing one small piece of justice beyond all sense is what brought this about. And yet, I still wonder at the cost. 

Sooner or later, if he stays here, Ben's going to lose the part of him that makes him different from the Chicago police. He's going to lose his ability to see the best in everyone, expect the best from everyone. I see it happening. Gerard took some of his innocence. My own friend, betraying me. But after that, there have been so many other things. So many people in this city who've tried to use him or hurt him. Out in the wild, where he belongs, if you've got your wits, you'll survive just fine. Nature isn't duplicitous. Ruthless, yes, but not deceitful.

There are too many people here he's helped only to have them turn on him. It's like the story of the scorpion and the frog. The scorpion asks the frog to carry him across the river, but half way across the scorpion stings the frog, condemning them both to drown. When the frog asks why, the scorpion says "But you knew that was my nature." This town is full of scorpions. But Ben's nature is to keep carrying them no matter how many times he gets stung.

They took his old partner away. All right, I may have thought the man wasn't a match for Ben, but he was Ben's friend, and they took that away. He lost his home and never seems to have thought he deserves a place to call his own. He hides in that tiny room of his, more than married to his job. This desperate need to forgive his partner and the Lieutenant, it seems to me that's just him holding on tightly to what he has left. His hands are clasped so tightly around the little he has, he can't reach out for more, can't take the happiness he deserves. I've tried to tell him he's not getting any younger, but he doesn't listen. I wish his mother were still around. I'm no good at talking about, well, those things. Besides, I miss her every day. I wish she'd been able to see the fine man he grew up to be.

I'm not going to say that it's my fault he's here, but I don't understand why he's never left when he had the chance. This time, things turned out fine. But how much more can he possibly have to give? One day, the yank won't just be able to ride up in that fancy car and make everything all right. One day it will be too late.

**End**


End file.
